


A Murder of Two

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: AU where the band was killed by blackbirds, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 22:08:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14506494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: Based on the dream Nathan had in Go Forth & Die... But he wouldn't be alone. He'll always have Charles.





	A Murder of Two

**Author's Note:**

> This story, or some form of it, will also appear as a dream sequence in another, much longer fic I'm working on. So... enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> _Murder: The collective noun for a group of crows._

Charles was in hell.

Fluorescent, polyester uniform hell.

The pervasive smell of hamburger grease was under his nails, in his hair, baked into his skin by the proximity of the hot griddle. As soon as he finished slowly dropping the next round of patties he had to cook one by one on the shining and spitting surface, he reached without enthusiasm for his spatula and started flipping. There was no way to increase the efficiency of this process; the griddle could only fit so many patties at a time and he had to move at what felt like a glacial pace to achieve the cooking time that each side required.

He heard the bell above the front door jingle. From his station he couldn’t see much of what went on at the front counter, but he cringed every time the first influx of the dinner rush began.

"Hey, fuck-face, give me four number fives!"

Sounded like some snot-nosed asshole. He heard Nathan's reply from up front, clearly startled by the sudden intrusion and rapid fire demand. “Um… Uh… Uh, so you want a five?"

"No, retard! I want four fives!” Charles could just imagine the kind of kid that went with that voice. Some pimple faced teenager who felt inclined to get in the lowly fast food worker’s face, even though Nathan probably towered over him. “Listen, Tonto,” the jerk continued, “you give me four fives, and you do it now!”

Charles’ eyes narrowed and he looked up from his flipping, craning his neck to try and see what was happening at the counter. Polyester hell or not, there were some things that he really hated hearing — assholes calling Nathan ‘Tonto’ was one of them. Especially when the poor guy was already flustered, because it only exacerbated the problem.

“You, you have... You wanted, uh... You wanted…?”

"Hey, wait a minute,” the kids grating voice interrupted. Charles couldn’t quite see him past Nathan’s shoulder, clad in the hideous brown and orange Dimmu Burger uniform. “Aren't you Nathan Explosion?"

That made Charles wince. He himself never got recognized, having never really stepped out from behind the scenes while Dethklok had still been together. It was different for the former frontman.

“Uh...” Nathan hesitated, torn between lying to get out of the inevitability embarrassing conversation about his past and honesty. As usual when he was flustered, the truth came easier than making up a lie. "Yeah, I guess I am."

"Didn't you have anything to fall back on after your band was killed by black birds?” the kid demanded in a mocking tone.

The door to the office creaked open and shut behind their manager, who was widely regarded as an asshole. He always watched the security cameras, saying it was to keep an eye on his employees just in case any of them slacked off, but in practice he merely seemed to be on the lookout for opportunities to creep out and shower them with scorn and shame. Charles, knowing that Nathan was yet again going to be his favorite punching bag, gestured urgently with his spatula for his nearest coworker to come take over his station.

“Huh,” Nathan said, still mulling helplessly over the question and oblivious to the second jerk bearing down on him. “No. I never graduated from high school, so…”

"He's a complete idiot,” the manager interjected nastily. “Can hardly function. He's _so stupid_."

“Yeah, I am stupid… I am?” Nathan sounded both blindsided and absolutely horrified.

 _Get over here_ , Charles mouthed angrily at the reluctant burger wrapper. Finally she relented and took the spatula gingerly, taking his place at the griddle but trying to stand far enough back as to not get spattered with the grease. As if the whole building wasn’t permeated with the stuff.

"Oh, well. That's just too bad,” the kid said snidely. Charles rounded the corner just in time to see the red squirt bottles raised to firing position. “Look out!”

Nathan was too slow to block the attack, and took a face full of the gloppy condiment as a result. “Ketchup! Ahh!”

"Oh, no! Now you gotta go wash your face,” the kid jeered.

“Oh. Face. Yeah, right...”

Charles already had a towel ready and pushed it into Nathan’s hands, blocking his frenzied reaching for any kind of liquid to splash on his face to wash the ketchup off. If he hadn’t been there, the guy would have ended up with his hands in the frier and hot oil splashed into his eyes, which sounded too stupid to be possible but he knew flustered Nathan all too well.

Nathan took the towel gratefully and scrubbed it against his face. “Thanks, man,” he mumbled, not having to see his rescuer to know who it was. These days, there was only one person who still always had his back.

“No problem,” Charles replied smoothly, patting him on the shoulder and giving it one quick, reassuring squeeze. His gaze moved to the manager, who was glaring at him for interrupting what was honestly the only form of entertainment in this hellhole. “I was, ah, going to ask if I could take my break now, but I can take the register for a bit if you want.” He glanced at the kid, who looked almost as put out. “Four number fives, right?”

The manager grunted a vague acknowledgement in Charles’ general direction and slunk back towards the office. No one at Dimmu Burger messed with Charles Offdensen, who could talk rings around anyone else there any day of the week and had more degrees than most of his coworkers seemed to have IQ points. When he’d applied for the job, he had walked into the place like he owned it and was the one conducting the interview here thank you very much; he’d gotten Nathan a job as well, terrible resume unseen, and a written addendum to their contracts stating that they would _always_ work the same shifts.

Nathan gratefully retreated back out of the public eye to take over flipping burgers, and Charles took over up front just in time for the dinner rush to start. He preferred being on register to flipping burgers anyway. The only thing he needed the grungy little machine to do was open and print receipts, as he had memorized all the menu items and prices long ago and could do all the math in his head to keep from getting bored. On his own, he could move people through the line as efficiently as three regular employees combined.

So what was he doing there in fluorescent, polyester uniform hell? The answer was a few feet behind him, past the metal shelves of over-salted fries and pre-made Dimmu meals sweating under heat lamps, flipping burgers and idly humming the tune of some unwritten song…


End file.
